Hell of a way to burn
by AnyaMaia
Summary: Set post ASiB-Moriaty has a hand in delivering some shocking revelations to Sherlock. Sherlock sets out to discover the truth about John and in the process learns the truth of his own feelings. Can John ever feel the same?
1. The poolside

**A/N - First fan fiction so any feedback would be most welcome! The first couple of chapters are setting the scene with Moriarty... hopefully not too boring... enjoy!**

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><p>Set post 'A scandal in Belgravia'.<p>

Sherlock receives a text from Moriarty. An invitation for one he simply can't refuse. Moriarty is out to cause trouble but can the world's only consulting detective see through his plan? Or will Moriarty succeed in burning him beyond repair…

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><p>Sherlock opened the door to the poolside and swept into the half-light, the army issue Browning straining against the pocket of his tailored suit. Moriarty was already there, waiting, leaning against the wall at the deep end. He looked up as the door swung shut behind Sherlock. The reflections cast off the surface of the pool seemed to give the criminal a distinctly reptilian quality. He stood with an enthusiasm which was not mirrored by the wary detective.<p>

"Sherlock, at last, what a pleasant surprise" Moriarty said exuberantly "you know we really should stop meeting like this… no wait, let's not" the man grinned manically. "You didn't bring your pet, why's that I wonder …"

The taller man stood quietly, determined to give nothing away, his face expressionless.

"Is it because I threatened to blow him up last time?" Moriarty simpered

Sherlock stiffened slightly and his fingers twitched towards his pocket. It was the cue Moriarty needed. Smiling a twisted half smile he continued "and you don't seem to be in the mood for one of our little conversations…shame… I had SO much to tell you... about the pet as it happens… but I see you've lost interest, put him back in the pound… you do know people are prone to euthanizing unwanted animals don't you?"

"Leave John out of this" Sherlock's voice contained the barely concealed threat of violence.

"Ah yes, I know how our little games confuse him. It's you and me Sherlock, we have the intellect, the mind for games. And Dr Watson, well he clearly doesn't… Lacking wouldn't you say?" he winked at Sherlock "On some fundamental level, lacking… But to leave him out entirely? Well now that wouldn't be too much fun would it? And really it's more a case of would that I could, Sherlock, would that I could…"

Sherlock frowned almost imperceptibly, his mind racing. Where was this going? What was Moriarty after? Why was he involving John? His text message had been clear – an invitation for one. Sherlock had been happy to leave his blogger at home out of danger.

"Now now, don't go racing off ahead, you'll ruin all my fun if you beat me to the punch line detective!" the mad man chuckled to himself as Sherlock narrowed his eyes "Yes before we come to that I wanted to discuss an issue that's as close to my heart as it is to yours. It's just such a shame, don't you think, that in order to get your attention I have to keep putting that poor man in danger. I wonder if he finds it distressing. What do you think Sherlock? Did he find it distressing when I wrapped him in a Semtex blanket?"

The detectives eyes darkened and a dangerous, feral look advanced across his features. He fixed the smiling man with a cold stare, biding his time and thinking about the doctors Browning in his pocket.

"Ah, if only looks could Kill! Yes, I see that we share a concern for the good doctors welfare. But I wonder how concerned you'll be at the end of our little conversation? Are you confused Sherlock? You must be, but I promise you won't be for long!" Moriarty paused for effect "You see I'm not the only 'fan' you've attracted, no not by far. And whilst most are as harmless as your blogging fan-base there are a couple of us who have the potential to be a little more, how can I put it… lethal" he watched as Sherlock processed the idea "Oh, don't be surprised Sherlock, it's your intellect, it calls out to those of us who can equal it… and to those of us who surpass it. But of course you don't think that's possible do you? So smug in the knowledge that you can surpass those around you that you foolishly believe you can out-think everyone… It's a nice idea, but I'm about to prove you wrong. I told you once that I would burn the heart out of you, do you remember that?"

"As I said to you before I have been reliably informed that I don't have one"

"Oh, but we both know that's not_ quite_ true. In fact, if I remember rightly you confirmed my suspicions in this very room. John Watson, he gave you a heart Sherlock, he opened the frozen door and turned on the central heating. And now I have the pleasure of burning that heart right out of you…" he smiled "I'm curious, do you think it will break you when I rip that heart out? Hmmm? Do you think it will destroy you? Or will you be able to just shut down that feeling part and carry on?"

"I doubt that anything you have to say will have the least bit of an effect on me Moriarty"

"Ah, I do so love a bit of bravado! Well I suppose I'd better put it to the test… fill you in on a little secret…" Moriarty tilted his head slightly before continuing "It's not really my secret you understand, no, not really my game this one. In fact I'll actually be in rather a lot of trouble for telling you but I just can't stand to see you go on like this" he looked at Sherlock dotingly. "You see one of your other 'fans' he likes to play the long game Sherlock. And he's right in the middle of the longest play around… God, it's almost a shame to spoil it… but I'm feeling impatient and life can be so booorrring" He sang the last word in a child-like voice, the sound reverberated around the pool house. "Well you know what it's like. I know you get bored too. At least this should be entertaining… for one of us"

He strode carefully around the edge of the pool, stalking towards Sherlock, his footsteps echoing out. Sherlock's hand strayed towards his over filled pocket.

"Now now detective there's really no need for that. I assure you that I mean you no harm" he laughed "well that's not quite true I suppose, rather I have no plans to put you in any immediate physical danger."

"And what about my plans for you Moriarty? What's to stop me ending this little game right here?" Sherlock pulled the pistol from his pocket and raised it with a flourish, his finger on the trigger.

A single red laser beam fell onto Sherlock's long dark overcoat right over the heart. Should he simply take his shot and be done with it? That would be a terribly interesting way to go…


	2. Revelations

**A/N - if you're enjoying (or even if you're not but feel like giving constructive criticism) reviews would be most welcome and appreciated! Thanks**

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><p>Moriarty sneered at the taller man "I always come prepared Sherlock, you should know better than to question that. Besides I don't really think you'd kill me… Not. Right. Now" he tipped his head left to right like a metronome following the pattern of the words.<p>

He was right, there was something Sherlock wanted to hear, Moriarty's revelation… And he felt sure he could outwit the criminal on another day. With an inaudible sigh the detective lowered the weapon in his hand.

Moriarty continued "No, you won't kill me because then you wouldn't get to find out what it is I'm so obviously DYING to tell you! Your curiosity simply wouldn't allow that Sherlock… You forget I know you…" he snapped his fingers once and the steady beam of the laser blinked out of existence "I really don't think we need that now do we?"

He grinned excitedly "Back to my revelation… I rather think we should discuss John"

He seemed to be waiting for input. Sherlock wondered why this was coming back to John again? Begrudgingly he responded "What does John have to do with anything?"

"Now that is a question" the consulting criminal's eyebrows danced higher on his head as he returned to his singsong lilt "that's the only question!"

"You are SO sentimental about him and he's SO touchingly loyal isn't he? Willing to sacrifice everything to save you Sherlock, willing to sacrifice his own life. Didn't you ever think that was strange? You're not exactly top of many Christmas card lists are you? Not exactly easy to like… or to love… so why is he SO keen on you? Hmmmm? What do you think Sherlock?" he tilted his head and looked into the taller man's eyes as he exaggerated the words in his next sentence "Why is it do you think that he finds you sooo fascinating, sooo amazing? Others don't do they, Sherlock dear?"

John just always had. Sherlock had never questioned it, just accepted it. "What are you getting at Moriarty?"

"Haven't you worked it out? Considering you're so clever and all?" the criminal paused and frowned at the man before him. "No? Really? Not even a clue? Awww, poor Sherlock all in the dark about everything" he emphasised the last word, over enunciating it "You know I think you've been affected Sherlock. You used to be much more fun, much cleverer… but now, now you're letting sentiment get in your way"

Sentiment -hideous word, hideous idea. Sherlock assessed himself quickly. John had a humanising influence on him but he was sure he wasn't afflicted with sentiment. Sherlock bristled slightly at the thought.

"Oh, you really don't like that do you? Did I hit a nerve? Must have… hmmm that's interesting… but back to John… Johnny boy, Johnny John John… and why exactly he's able to forgive you all you trespasses, to forget all of your flaws… why do you think that is Sherlock? Why is it that he's still hanging around when all the others before him fled?" His brown eyes wide he waited for Sherlock's response.

"Enlighten me" Sherlock was quickly growing bored. Where was Moriarty going with this? Was he going to threaten John again? That would be boring and repetitive.

"Oh I so hoped you'd say that" Moriarty licked his lips and the manic grin widened over his entire face. He leaned in towards the detective, tilting his face upwards slightly to maintain eye contact.

"Listen carefully now… remember it's a secret… John. Watson. Is. A. Plant." He rocked back on his heels to enjoy the look of confusion racing across the detectives face. "Your only friend in the world is a fake" he punctuated the sentence with an emphasis on the final word.

"What?" The word came out brisk and clipped.

"Oh I think you heard me Sherlock. John isn't what he appears to be… You've been living with him, letting him tag along on all your little jaunts, sharing with him, growing closer… and all the time he's been feeding you a lie! John Watson doesn't exist. He's a hired hand Sherlock, a toy designed especially with you in mind…"

John? Fake? Sherlock's mind went blank and simultaneously numb. He stood in silence, staring blindly across the pool. Slowly his brain rebooted. It wasn't possible, John was his friend, his only friend… and Sherlock would know, he couldn't be deceived… and yet…

Sherlock could see the logic in it, in Moriarty's argument. It had always surprised him that John was so willing to stick around, to ride out his bad moods, to excuse his brutal honesty. The living arrangements had to be hell for any ordinary person… When he finally responded the detective's voice sounded weak even to his own ears: "I don't believe you."

"Really? Somehow I think you do… It makes sense doesn't it? You REALLY don't want it to… but it simply does" he simpered "Poor Ikle Sherwock! Turns out you're just as alone as you always have been. Blindsided by sentiment, you couldn't see what I could…" he paused and looked at the expressions fleeting across on Sherlock's face.

"Or maybe it's more than that… just between us Sherlock I think that it is. And you know… you could have had him" Sherlock's head snapped round and his eyes found Moriarty's "It was part of the deal. He was there for the taking. Any. Time. You. Wanted. All you had to do was ask" Moriarty was laughing again, wearing an expression of sheer glee on his face.

Sherlock was confused, his brain recalling every time John had looked at him, every time they had spoken, searching for irregularities, searching for the truth. He was utterly unable to sculpt his features into his usual unfathomable mask. The growing look of surprised betrayal behind his eyes was excruciatingly obvious.

Moriarty continued undisrupted "Yes, you want him don't you? I can see it in your eyes… You can't hide from me Sherlock, we're the same… Well, almost the same, I'm mostly heterosexual…"

"I – I don't know what you're implying-." Sherlock's brain wasn't functioning properly; he was tripping over his own tongue.

"Oh but you do! Yes, you do Sherlock… Tell me, had you figured it out before now? Did you at least know that you wanted him, even if you didn't know you could have him?" The shorter man opened his eyes wide in delight "Oh, this is TOO GOOD! You really didn't, did you? And now you know the truth about him, that he'd be ready to take you into his arms at any time, into his bed… what will you do I wonder?"

Wanted him? What was Moriarty getting at? Sherlock Holmes didn't want anyone. Moriarty was wrong. He had to be wrong.

Moriarty chuckled to himself at Sherlock's defiant expression "Well I'd LOVE to stick around but places to be, you know, criminals to see…" He was walking away. Sherlock took a step towards him and the red spot flickered back to life on his chest.

"Ah-ah-ah" Moriarty had turned back towards the detective and was shaking his head "God I do wish I'd thought to bring a camera to capture your lovely expressions… hmmm… maybe next time" He smirked. "Bye-bye now" he sang as he disappeared through the double doors.

Sherlock watched the doors swing shut and the dancing red spot blink out of existence once again. His mind was reeling. His tense muscles relaxed as one and the Browning slipped from his fingers. He watched as it bounced off the tile and plunged into the pool, sinking into the chlorinated depths. John wouldn't be happy he thought idly. John. All this was about John. What was he going to do about John?


	3. An experiment

**A/N - Thanks to power0girl for my first review! Much appreciated!**

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><p>Sherlock was standing by his window when John came in. Staring out into the encroaching darkness, the room lit only by the glare of the street lamps.<p>

The detective wasn't aware how long he had been standing there, statue-still, waiting for the doctor to return home. John had been out with friends… or at least according to the message he had left on the notepad. Sherlock hadn't wanted to doubt him but Moriarty's words had hit their mark. Thus, as he stood there looking out over Baker Street and the mundane lives playing out below him Sherlock had, like sunlight focussed through a magnifying glass onto paper below, been burning a hole through himself with the focus of his self-examination. And yet, despite his own intense scrutiny he was no closer to solving the problem, if indeed there was one. He was no closer to deciding once and for all whether John was friend, or ingeniously disguised foe. His nose wrinkled in anger and disgust every time the last thought threaded its way through his mind.

Sherlock hadn't moved or stirred when he saw John stride around the corner of the road, nor when he heard his key turn in the lock, not even when he heard the other man's steps come to a stop just inside the door to the flat. None of these things were enough to break his focus, now turned so intently inwards. So that was how John came to find him, still dressed in his long dark coat, staring out of his window at the world beyond.

"Sherlock?"

The man didn't answer. He didn't turn to face John. It seemed like the detective didn't even realise he was there.

"Sherlock?" John tried again louder. "Sherlock, are you ok?"

Sherlock turned slightly in the shorter man's direction, his profile illuminated by the orange light falling in through the undressed window. From Johns vantage point his face was still unclear, all angles and shadows. The doctor took a cautious step towards him "What's wrong? Sherlock…" his voice trailed off as the taller man turned to face him fully.

"Nothing" Sherlock whispered the word, eyes trained on the floor. His voice strained, forced somehow. His usual unfathomable, unemotional mask was gone. Raw, troubled emotions played across his features.

"God…" John uttered under his breath.

"Nothing" Sherlock repeated slightly louder as he attempted to re-sculpt his features. They were giving him away, he couldn't afford to give the game away, not at this stage, not if John was… If John…

"Look something's wrong with you. I can tell you know." John stepped closer to the willowy man hands held out in front of him, low and calming, voice full of concern "I might not be as clever as you are but I know you Sherlock and I know something's wrong" he paused, uncertain how to continue.

"Sherlock…" he started again, moving still closer to the dark statue of a man "tell me… tell me what's wrong… tell me what's got you so… so… upset…" he said the last word quietly, almost too quietly for Sherlock to hear. It sounded very much like he was trying it for size, seeing if and how the term could ever fit the man before him. Likely he thinks I will react badly to such an emotional term Sherlock mused, and likely I would have but for the current situation.

When he said nothing for almost a full minute John continued "Sherlock… if you tell me maybe I can help". He moved forward, getting ever closer to the immobile detective.

"Unlikely" Sherlock moved his eyes from where they had been carefully trained on the floor up to John's face. Which was now, he noted, remarkably close by. With a resigned internal sigh Sherlock forced himself to really look at the man before him. To assess him once again. This time, he assured himself, without bias.

John was confused. His brow was pinched in worry and his posture reflected his training; poised to react and defend at a moments notice. Sherlock noted the way that although his blue eyes reflected the depth of his inner turmoil and were seemingly fixed on his own angular face, they were carefully tracking every change in light and sourcing every unexpected noise that punctuated the silent darkness of the flat. The man before him was on high alert, all keen senses and trained awareness. He looked protective Sherlock noted dully, and that was a good sign at least.

Sherlock allowed himself to look deeper, to observe the details which would enlighten him about Johns recent past. He had been drinking. Not enough that there was an unsteadiness in his gait or a slur in his speech but there was alcohol in his system and on his breath. So support for the outing with friends then - drinking with friends. Where? A public house? A bar? There was also the unmistakable odour of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and hair. Marlboro Lights unless Sherlock was mistaken, and on this fact at least he was certain he wasn't. John didn't smoke and there wasn't evidence of a newly acquired smoking habit on his breath or his fingers. So Marlboro lights indicated Lestrade; the inspector had recently given in and resumed his 10-a-day habit. Therefore John had been out with Lestrade. Sherlock spared a moment to absorb the fact that John was now apparently classing Lestrade as a friend then resumed his analysis. Lestrade, drinking and smoking… possibly still a bar or a public house, smoking wasn't allowed inside anymore but one could still smoke outside. Why did John smell though when he would presumably be inside? Obvious. John would likely have stood outside with the inspector to keep him company. Despite the poor weather. It was just something John would do. But no, no there was something more. A smudge of black by his wrist, noticeable only after John held his arms out cautiously towards Sherlock, and a faint odour of smoke. Not cigarette this time, it was overlaid by the scent of the Marlboros. This was thicker, deeper with the hint of combustible materials, accelerants… Lestrade, drinking, smoking, black smudge, accelerant related fire… What was that he had overheard in the Yard last week? It was on the edge of his consciousness. Donovan had mentioned something about it… A barbecue. John had been at a barbecue. With policemen from the Yard.

His deductions had taken mere seconds and John still stood before him cautiously watching him, waiting for a response. The deductions had provided further support for the note Sherlock realised - John gave every appearance that he had been out socialising with friends.

Every appearance… but John would have to wouldn't he? If indeed he was planted in Sherlock's life he would have to be an expert at giving such appearances. If what Moriarty said was true then John – and his handler – would have been staging evidence on John's hair and breath and clothing for months. Sherlock examined the expressive face of the shorter man in front of him, there wasn't a hint of betrayal or an indication of acting. This was real, it had to be. But could he really trust his own senses? Or had he been blindsided by sentiment. Sherlock heaved an internal sigh. He couldn't be sure, not absolutely, not from an observation. An experiment then? Yes…

Sherlock took a moment to wonder what the soldier's reaction would be before he committed to the course of action. It didn't really matter he decided. He simply had to know and there was no better way of finding out. He stepped forward and grasped the upper arms of the man in front of him. Then in one quick movement he bent his neck and kissed John Watson on the lips.

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><p><strong>AN - Rating is likely going to move up to M for the next chapter... Swearing ensues!**


	4. The tear

**A/N - Thanks to those of you who have reviewed since the last chapter! Much appreciated feedback!**

**This chapter has pushed the story up to an M because of the swearing...hopefully its well placed and so won't put anyone off!**

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><p>The kiss lasted mere seconds.<p>

Sherlock had time to note the confusion in John's expression as he swept towards him. He had time to note the surprisingly soft feel of Johns slightly parted lips beneath his own. He even had time to register, dimly in the farthest reaches of his subconscious, that the experience of pressing his lips to those of another, contrary to what he would previously have believed, was not entirely unpleasant.

Then the kiss was broken.

Sherlock felt strong hands come into contact with his chest. Hard. John shoved him roughly away. He glared at Sherlock keeping his arms out in front of him, maintaining a physical barrier and setting the distance between their two bodies.

"SHERLOCK! What the fuck…" John's voice drifted off as he stepped back, further increasing the distance between them, shaking his head.

Sherlock simply watched him as he slowly lowered his arms, assessing his behaviour and his reactions.

"Sherlock I'm waiting for a bloody explanation here" the doctor's voice was cold and hard.

The voice currently emanating from his friend did not sound like John at all the detective noted. What's more, John appeared to be physically shaking. Anger? He was most certainly bewildered by their kiss. Was this unlikely if he was an actor? No, not particularly. Their relationship had never been romantic thus it would likely be bewildering that he, Sherlock, a self-diagnosed sociopath and John's friend had suddenly kissed him. His bewilderment gave nothing away. His bewilderment did not help in the assessment of his status; friend or foe.

"FUCK! Don't you dare just fucking stand there and look at me like that! What the hell was that? What the hell were you doing?"

Anger, definitely anger. The taller man felt an odd little twinge at the thought that John was so angry with him over what had just happened. Over the way he was seemingly so upset by the notion of kissing Sherlock. He quickly brushed the thought aside.

"Well?" John was still staring at him apparently quite enraged. Sherlock turned his attention back to the experiment and away from the niggling thoughts and… _feelings?..._ on the edge of his consciousness.

Nothing in the doctor's stance said that he'd been expecting what had just happened. Nothing about him said he was prepared for it or that he had been forewarned that it might come to this. His eyes were blazing blue fury and his previously protective stance had shifted. Whereas before he had been poised to react and defend them both from the hidden dangers lurking in the dark recesses of the flat, now his posture betrayed his switch to attack mode. The soldier in him was now defending only one person. Himself. He now was surveying Sherlock as though he was the source of danger rather than the helpless victim.

Sherlock saw that although his mind was now clearly focused on the detective, monitoring his every muscle for signs of further amorous advances he was also studiously avoiding making eye contact. He kept his eyes moving, either roving over the detective or delving into the shadows behind Sherlock's lean frame as though seeking a viable reason, an explanation for his ardent behaviour.

The shorter man's fists were balled up and although his arms now hung at his sides there was a tension across his shoulders that implied he was ready to put them into action should the need arise. But he hadn't struck out at Sherlock when he had conducted his experiment. He most certainly would have if it had been anyone else the detective realised. John might look harmless enough at times, his caring doctor side shining through, but underneath that there was a hardness borne out of blood and war and loss. Yes, Sherlock was suddenly certain that had any other man tried to force a kiss upon John Watson he would have met with a much more brutal response. His shove had been positively delicate by military standards especially given the distress and anger he was currently emanating. So why had John let him off so easily? Why as Moriarty put it was John able to forgive him all his trespasses in ways that he would not forgive those of others?

Sherlock found the woman's voice unbidden, filtering slowly through his consciousness "somebody loves you… if I had to punch that face I'd avoid your nose and teeth too". The detective considered the words carefully. John loved him. As a friend. Everything about his responses tonight supported that fact. But was he sure? Was he absolutely, beyond all doubt sure that the man standing before him was truly who he claimed to be? He quickly ran through the evidence once more and came to the final and welcome conclusion that nothing about his deductions of the night's events led him to believe in any way that the man before him was anything less than a good and honest friend.

So John wasn't acting then. He wasn't planted. He wasn't playing a role. Sherlock was certain of this now. John Hamish Watson was exactly who Sherlock had first deduced him to be, he was exactly who he said he was, exactly who he had claimed to be from the very beginning. He was Sherlock's co-worker, flatmate and friend. And right now, in the darkened flat standing beside the ever silent skull, he was, as his body language and demeanour suggested simply very confused and exceptionally angry.

Sherlock cleared his throat. Good, now that was sorted out he felt he could address the man before him. "That" he said in a quiet calm, devastatingly at odds with the whirlwind of emotions John was projecting "was an experiment".

"An experiment? AN EXPERIMENT!" John was not satiated with the meagre response "A fucking experiment? You… You launch yourself at me and KISS me… And then you stand there cool as anything and just say it was an experiment?" John shook his head violently. "That's what the look was… and the silent treatment".

"The look?" Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him.

"Yes the fucking look. The fucking calculating look. The look you give to particularly interesting corpses. You fucking stood there and gave me the look. Twice".

Sherlock didn't know if it was just his imagination or if he could hear a kind of sadness laced through John's anger. "You're upset because of 'the look' then?"

John somehow managed to appear more infuriated "What? Sherlock you're the expert here. You tell me – am I upset? DO I SEEM UPSET TO YOU?"

"Obviously. But you seem to be implying that it was 'the look', as you put it, which upset you rather than the kiss itself" Sherlock was trying to get his head around John's outburst. If he were merely upset about the kind of expression on his face when he had been assessing the doctor's status then that would be an infinitely better scenario than if he was actually this upset because Sherlock had kissed him. The detective didn't know why this was true, and he didn't waste brain power investigating the thought, he just accepted it was so.

John let out a frustrated cry, simultaneously throwing his arms up into the air "It was all of it Sherlock. You… I… God, why the hell am I bothering to try and spell it out to you? You don't get it. You never fucking get it!"

Sherlock was deliberately keeping his face blank. This wasn't good. John was more upset that he had anticipated. John wasn't calming down. He didn't know why he chose not to tell him about Moriarty. Perhaps it would've helped him understand but Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Not whilst John was shouting. Not whilst John was so angry with him. Not once he realised that Moriarty had been right… not about John, no certainly not… but about their relationship, about how from Sherlock's side at least it was something more than platonic. The last thought hit him with a devastating impact.

"John-" he began weakly, stepping towards him, moving further into the gloom of the flat. He felt he should try to explain.

"IT. WAS. ALL. OF. IT!" John shouted, his face an uncharacteristically brazen shade of red "I'm straight Sherlock! What the hell gives you the right to inflict yourself on me?"

Sherlock struggled to keep his face impassive. He doubted John would see his expression through the deep shadows but he didn't want to risk it. He didn't want John's rejection to be mirrored in his expression. Damn it! When had this become so complicated? When exactly during the last few minutes had this turned from an experiment to a rejection of affections?

Watson spun on his heel and marched towards the ever-open door and the windowless black of the stairwell.

"John-" Sherlock tried again barely above a whisper. His voice once again, he was disgusted to note, came out strained and forced.

"Going out" was his only reply, the words thrown harshly over Johns exiting shoulder.

Sherlock turned back to his window and watched as John Watson burst out of the building and barrelled down the road. Away from 221b Baker Street. Away from Sherlock. He didn't look back.

A single tear rolled slowly down his chiselled cheekbone as the detective stood by the window swathed in darkness. It followed the pull of gravity falling through the black void before arriving at its final resting place on the parched wooden floor.


	5. Compositions and repercussions

**A/N - Sorry this chapter has taken me so long to write and post! Unfortunately life has been getting in the way rather alot recently! I promise to bring you another chapter soon with a bit more drama but hopefully this little look at Sherlock post kiss will be enough for now! **

**Big thanks again to my reviewers :) and also to anyone out there who has this on alert!**

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><p>10.05 pm - John Watson was furious.<p>

11.18 pm - John Watson was angry.

1.40 am - John Watson was agitated and aggrieved.

2.59 am - John Watson was simply confused.

4.29 am – John Watson finally fell asleep.

~xOx~

4.30 am – Sherlock stood alone by his window in the bleak black landscape of the flat. His mind occupied for the last six and a half hours by just two questions; where was John Watson and was he ever coming back?

~xOx~

By nine the following morning when Mrs Hudson popped in to see whether her boys wanted her to whip up something for their breakfast Sherlock was wearing his blue silk dressing gown and composing on his violin.

"Sherlock dear, will you be wanting any breakfast this morning?"

"No" he didn't stop playing, nor did he turn towards her, or generally observe any social norms by way of a greeting.

"Oh Sherlock you really should eat you know. You haven't had anything for two days now."

Sherlock said nothing. He merely paused briefly to make a note on the paper before him. What did it matter to her whether he ate or not? Why were people always trying to get him to eat? He supposed John would want him to-… He stopped that thought in its tracks. John wasn't here. John had left him. Permanently for all Sherlock knew. Thus John no longer had the privilege of factoring into his decision making processes. He would not eat today.

The detective knew that by ignoring Mrs Hudson he was being what most people might think of as exceptionally rude. He simply didn't care. He also knew that John would be most displeased when he-… No. Just no. He put down the pencil and resumed his deviant melody.

"Well" Mrs Hudson paused briefly before continuing "will John want anything when he wakes up do you think? It's just I'm off out at ten…"

"Not in" was the only stunted reply offered.

"What's that dear?"

"Not in. John. He's out" Sherlock placed a weird kind of emphasis on the word 'out' but Mrs. Hudson, if she noticed it, didn't remark.

"Very well dear, I expect I'll see you both later then" and she turned and made her way back down the stairs without waiting for a reply. It was evident Sherlock was in one of his moods.

~xOx~

Shortly after Mrs Hudson left Sherlock put down his violin. He looked at the clock. 2.26 pm. It seemed time had moved on rather more quickly than he had thought – it was early afternoon already and John still wasn't back. He moved to his chair and folded himself into it. He needed to think. Not about where John was or about when he would be back, but about why John's reaction had bothered him so much. About where all these…_ feelings… _had suddenly come from. Sherlock didn't like the confusion they presented. He needed to understand what was going on inside his own mind; he needed to probe his mental processes until he had answers. Thus, he brought his templed hands up beneath his chin and directed his gaze into the cold darkness of the fireplace as he immersed himself in his thoughts.

Sometime later Sherlock resurfaced. It was dark again and the flat was quiet. He was still alone. Sherlock's journey into his mind had helped him reach several conclusions. Firstly, his current predicament with John was in no small part Moriarty's fault. Likely he had planned it as such. Sherlock confused by John's humanising influence over the last year and a half would, on hearing that John was a plant, reach the conclusion that he could no longer trust his judgement. He would then come up with another way to test the theory. Being Sherlock he would go for the most direct route, not thinking through the possible consequences. Not understanding the ordinary person's point of view. Consequently through his actions he had alienated John. To what degree he was not sure. But that this was the outcome that Moriarty had anticipated Sherlock was certain. In short, the burning had begun, just not in the way Moriarty had lead Sherlock to believe.

Secondly, Moriarty had been correct in his assumptions that, to Sherlock, Dr John Watson was more than a friend. It irked him to admit, even to himself, that Moriarty had understood this before he himself had. But there it was, evidenced by his thoughts and _feelings_ after the kiss. _Feelings_ that he didn't know he had and that he was sure he didn't want. _Feelings_ which would likely have gotten in the way in future if that kiss hadn't already ruined everything. Sherlock sighed audibly.

Thirdly, finally, begrudgingly, he concluded that John Watson was heterosexual. The fact that he had felt it necessary to investigate the issue of John's sexuality and come to this conclusion had surprised him. The fact that the answer, that he was actually straight, had disappointed him had surprised Sherlock even more. Sherlock had never wanted to be intimate with anyone before. Yet his investigation into John's sexuality suggested that perhaps he wanted this for them. It wasn't exactly a burning desire just beneath his carefully controlled exterior, but Sherlock realised that at some level in his mind the notion of intimacy with John had appeared and been met with some kind of approval. So it was with a sense of dissatisfaction that he noted the wealth of girlfriend related evidence to support his heterosexuality, John's consistent denials of any kind of romantic involvement between Sherlock and himself and finally his reaction to the kiss.

'It was all of it' after all. All of it had incensed him. All of it had made him storm out. Sherlock had 'inflicted' himself upon John. His attentions had been undesirable in the extreme.

Suddenly the detective found that he couldn't bear these thoughts any longer. He couldn't bear to be in the flat; alone, waiting, THINKING for a moment more. He had to get out. Out of the flat. Out of the vice-like grip of his circling thoughts… and he realised knew just the way to do it. He slid to his feet in a fluid, feline motion and exchanging the silk dressing gown for his coat and scarf he headed out of the door.


	6. Resuming a habit

**A/N - I know it's been a long time coming and I can only apologise unreservedly and hope that you enjoy it! **

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><p>Sherlock knew exactly where he was going and exactly what he needed. Acquiring the several items that would allow him the escape he desired in London was, after all, ridiculously easy. The getting of said items without arousing the suspicions of his brother's staff, and so in the process alerting said brother would be slightly more troublesome… But only slightly, the staff were after all painfully inept when pitted against someone like himself.<p>

And so, it was a mere forty five minutes after he let the front door of number 221 slam shut on Mrs Hudson's cries and stalked down the road in a flurry of coat tails that he returned with his hoard.

He ensured his return to the flat was much quieter than his departure, closing the door softly and ascending the stairs silently with feline grace. It was far better that Mrs Hudson be unaware of his return. If she thought him out then she had no reason to come upstairs, no reason to interrupt him, no reason to make a fuss.

Sherlock couldn't help the small dissatisfied sound he made as he entered the still silent and empty living room. Nonetheless he was disgusted by it. Pausing briefly to cast aside his coat and scarf he swept towards the kitchen with, he realised, a vague and irrational hope that he would find John there; sitting in the dark, nursing a cup of tea. Of course the kitchen was unoccupied. The detective bit back the sound of disappointment that threatened to escape and tried valiantly to ignore the emptiness that seemed to be unfurling in the pit of his stomach.

Perhaps John was upstairs in his room? Even as he halted momentarily to listen carefully for the unmistakable sounds of his flatmate Sherlock knew he wasn't there. He knew, realistically, the moment he stepped through the street door that John had yet to return from wherever he had run to the previous evening. Or perhaps that should be from whomever he had run to he mused. Yes, the thought… _distressed _him somewhat but ultimately it made sense – likely John had spent last night with whichever woman he was currently seeing. He couldn't be bothered to try to fathom, from the swirling mass of barely remembered names and faces in his minds recycling bin, which was the current belle. It frankly wasn't worth the effort and it wouldn't help him in any way; it wouldn't bring John home.

And, Sherlock discerned, he desperately wanted John home. He wanted to see him, to talk to him, to explain things to him… to make John see sense. He wanted the doctor or the soldier, he'd take whichever. As long as he had evidence that the man, his bestfriend, his only friend hadn't left him. He would have been happy to be yelled at, to be screamed at, to be ignored. Whatever. Whatever John needed. Because, he realised with chagrin, Sherlock needed him.

The thought was not a pleasant one and it was most certainly unwelcome. However, the fact remained that it was true. He had always been fiercely independent, he had needed no one… and yet now… now he had allowed someone to get in, to gain access. And it left him… _vulnerable… dependent._ He needed his blogger and the worry that he was gone; that he was irretrievably lost somehow was almost painful.

And it was more than the need to have John here to talk to and to bounce ideas off and to generally show willingness to inhabit the same space as him. The detective recognised a much more pressing and immediate reason for his desire to have John home. John, ever moral and sensible and good, would stop him doing what he was about to do. His doctor would steal his hoard and shout at him and then, even if he was angry, he would stay with him and watch him and make sure he wasn't able to sneak back out to replenish his supplies.

The detective realised on some deeper level that this was exactly what he wanted. He didn't really want to take this course of action at all… But John wasn't here. He wasn't here to stop him, he wasn't here to yell. And Sherlock needed to escape… to escape from this confusion, this jumble of thoughts, of _feelings… _to escape from this dark emptiness that seemed to be spiralling outwards from his solar plexus.

An experiment was just the way to do it, just the way to focus his mind; the only way he knew Sherlock reasoned. John wasn't here. And when he returned and was disappointed or angry then he would only have himself to blame. After all, Sherlock concluded, he could have stopped this but instead he had stayed away from the flat, away from the detective.

And what if he never comes back? A quiet lifeless voice whispered into the detective's ear. Well in that case it really won't matter he thought viciously and he silenced the voice by striding towards his room to begin the experiment.

He locked the door behind him and laid out his hoard on the bed. Then he reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. He removed a well-worn leather bound journal and a pen before closing it carefully. He refused to think any further about what he was about to do. He refused to think any further about John. He opened the small black journal to a fresh page and noted down the particulars of the experiment he was preparing to commence. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his shirt sleeves.

_101154B_

_Resuming experiment: Investigation into drug tolerance levels in an addict_

_Drug: cocaine_

_Method of administration: IV injection_

_Notes: user has been clean for three years and as such will return to the study at a lower dosage than was ultimately reached in the previous experiment. This experiment will seek to provide an insight into the tolerance levels of a former addict three years post detox and to examine the speed with which the user becomes a) able to tolerate and function on the users previous baseline dosage, and b) re-addicted to and dependent on the substance…_


	7. The beatific solution

**A/N - **To anyone out there still following this... It is my intention to get this fic out of my head, on my computer and finally posted on here in the near future! ****

**Thankyou to anyone who reviewed the previous chapter :) Huge thanks to IluvSpock both for giving me a nudge to get back to it and for helping me look over some issues! **

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><p>The first slide of the needle into Sherlock's pale white flesh gave him an unexpected sensation of bliss. Before the plunger had even been depressed his body recognised and reacted to the feeling, his brain preparing for its escape; synapses snapping and neurones buzzing.<p>

Yes. This. This is what he had been missing, this feeling and the euphoria that would follow.

He didn't hesitate for a moment longer, hastily forcing the solution into his bloodstream. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief at the first surge of the stimulant; the sharpening of his mind, of his senses and the incredible surge of energy.

And then there was the near orgasmic surge of pleasure as he entered that perfect dreamlike trance. Sherlock felt his body fade from awareness, the angst and pain and pressure of his ever whirring mind. Just. Stopped. And in that almost heavenly moment he was lost in waves of paradise.

~xOx~

Sherlock heard the unmistakable sounds of John returning to the flat shortly after the euphoria of his first dose began to fade. He was ashamed to admit to the surge of warmth, of pleasure that flooded through him at the sound. John had returned, John had come back!

Relief flooded through him as his brain rebooted. This would likely all end here and now. John would want to _talk_ about things as he always did. _Boring. Mundane._ His brain supplied automatically - but this time… this time even he could admit; possibly necessary.

So they would talk. He would tell John about Moriarty. John would understand. Sherlock would make John understand. And John would apologise for the things he said, for the tone he used. Then that awful unnamed feeling, that dragging sensation of emptiness within, the ache which those words had somehow imbued into his system would be gone.

John would be furious when he saw the drugs. He would likely shout and rage before he forgave Sherlock. Forgave him as he always did. Then things would go back to normal.

But something was off. Sherlock heard his flatmate open the front door and… John was obviously trying to be as quiet and as unobtrusive as possible although, the detective noted, he failed to miss the creaky timber of the seventh stair. Sherlock struggled to focus his mind against the dense black fog left in the wake of his high. He struggled to hear the tell-tale sounds which would inform him of John's exact movements.

Likely John would shout for him. Or look for him. And when he didn't answer or appear, despite the overwhelming evidence that he was in residence, it was probable that John would come down to his room to bang on the door… And yet why was he being so quiet, so careful about his return?

Surely he would want to check on his flat mate? Surely he had started to forgive Sherlock by now; after all this couldn't be the worst thing he had ever done.

Surely.

When all he heard were the unmistakable sounds of a brief pause in the doorway and then John's carefully measured tread on the steep stairs up to his room the remaining vestiges of the detective's drug induced rapture fractured. The black gloom split open and the hurricane of thoughts that had been building in Sherlock's mind as his high waned surged forward; rushing, crashing, frenetic.

John was back but for how long? The thoughts, the feelings, the void in the centre of his being. They were all suddenly, desperately so much worse. He needed to make them disappear. He needed to escape again. And if he found his escape in the barrel of a needle then so be it. He reached for the hypodermic, thrusting the sharp point home and pressing down on the tiny piston.

And then he let go as the beatific solution, once again, brought on that perfectly exultant delirium.

~xOx~

It was the faint sounds of John moving around the flat which finally roused the detective once more. Time was a concept that had no meaning. Sherlock knew logically that it had passed in steady and measured increments from the point at which he was last made aware of its presence and yet he was unable to focus on the clock for long enough to determine how much time had passed since he last emptied a syringe into his veins.

That John was up and moving around should tell him something, he realised, should provide him with some clues about the length of the hour but the black fog in his mind was denser now; fortified by repeated administrations of his chosen solution.

Sherlock strained his ears and his muddied mind. John was getting ready to leave again, the sounds unmistakable as he paused by the door to collect his keys and jacket.

This was wrong, it was all wrong. John was avoiding him. John wasn't supposed to avoid him. Sherlock was the one who avoided emotions and sentiment, he was the one who shied away from conversations he didn't want to have.

Not John. John was the one who ploughed ahead, who handled the uncomfortable conversations, who forced Sherlock to acknowledge his faults and to examine his actions, his behaviours at every turn. John was the brave one, the one who could always be relied upon to do the right thing. John bettered him, tempered him. John belonged here, with him.

And John was leaving. Again. Which was unacceptable. He had to stop John.

Sherlock forced himself to his feet, his limbs uncooperative and leaden. The room spun as the black void in his mind seeped out to mar his vision.

He lurched towards the door, making it two steps before his balance failed him. Long limbs crumpled as he twisted to the right, gravity fuelling his fall. Sherlock heard the sound of the front door shutting below him in the final moment before his head impacted with the heavy wooden corner of the chest by the door.

~xOx~

The world came back to him in waves. Sound, light, colour, touch, pain. A wave of dizziness engulfed him, his stomach clenched uncomfortably and the wash of sickness that followed was unavoidable.

Sherlock acknowledged the pervasive numbness in his hands and feet and the way that it was slowly creeping up his limbs, leaving a path of seemingly-dead nerves in its wake. The room all at once seemed too hot and too cold as a wave of heat, like a rash, burned over every inch of his tender skin. The ticking of the clock, loud enough to wake the dead, broke into his thoughts and shattered his concentration. Conspiring to distract him from the cool feeling of the blood sipping down his face.

He really ought to get back onto the bed. Yes. Back onto the bed where he could lie down in some measure of comfort. Back… To... Bed.

Surging, grasping, rolling himself upwards, forwards. There was a moment where at the apex of his climb he saw, in glorious and morbid colour, the extent of his own blood loss pooled at his feet.

His now curiously not-so-sharp mind had a moment to recognise that perhaps the volume of blood loss should be alarming to him. That perhaps some ingrained and embedded survival function should be surging to the fore in his mind. To protect him.

Instead all he felt was the heat on his skin and slow crawl of the inescapable numbness as it wound its way into his brain.

There was something wrong… that he couldn't… quite… there was… blood… and heat… and… numb- His failing synapses gave him one last, and under the circumstances brilliant deduction before he was consumed. _Hypovolemic Shock – he was bleeding to death. _His last thought before he pitched forward onto the bed as the encroaching blackness took him: _John_.


End file.
